


Things Unlikely and Desirable

by the_moonmoth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Bad Flirting, Dramatic Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Have Some Very Soft Silliness, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: Ah, there it was, the Expression, that cool look, pinched mouth, sarcasm at the corners of his eyes. Crowley loved that look almost as much as the sun-shattering smile, because that look was a look just for him.Crowley follows Aziraphale to a bar.





	Things Unlikely and Desirable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).

> Written for the prompt: “I want your hidden look, your real smile— that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.” (Jorge Luis Borges) 
> 
> I looked up the [full poem](http://www-ccs.cs.umass.edu/cris/texts/two-english-poems.html) for inspiration, and have borrowed some lines and imagery from it for this fic, including the title. It’s gorgeous, you should read it. I was originally going to go to an angstier place with this, but in the end, I needed to write fluff. And yes, I did borrow that meme. No, I won’t apologise ;)

**Things Unlikely and Desirable**

Crowley wasn’t a creature of the night. Oh he enjoyed a good lurk in a shadowed doorway as much as the next demon, something about it was hardwired into the form, but slinking around pubs and clubs at the arse end of the day, clothes picking up the fug of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke– Or following someone home down an unlit street just to give them the willies– Emphatically not his scene. He’d much rather stay home with a nice red, watch some telly, and get in a good nap.

Well, no, he’d much rather make himself comfortable on the bookshop couch with a nice red, have a rambling conversation with the only person he wanted to spend his time with, and then pretend to be asleep while Aziraphale tucked a blanket around him so that maybe he’d kiss his forehead again like he had that one time last week. No chance of that tonight, though.

They were meeting later, much as they had done for the last several years since the Antichrist’s birth had necessitated they spend more time together. Aziraphale had suggested a play, and Crowley had agreed, not because he had a desperate desire to see the play but because he honestly didn’t care what they were doing so long as he got to sit next to Aziraphale and soak up his presence. So yeah, they’d agreed to meet, time and place all pre-arranged, and then Crowley had been confronted by that terrible stretch of time between the now of the phone call and the later of their rendezvous, how he would fill it with shreds and odd ends, empty music for a hungry heart. The lesser of two evils was to go out, but at least it was still quite early. Couldn’t be bothered with the whole creature of the night thing, yeah, but a creature of the late-afternoon-slash-early-evening he could do.

That was how he found himself in a bar in the theatre district during the post-work buzz, drawn there by that ancient sense that told him Aziraphale was near. That was how he found himself lurking after all, watching unseen as a handsome human approached Aziraphale, sat down beside him at the bar, and bought him a drink.

Crowley watched heatedly, mouth downturned, silent and still as a snake. Watched as the conversation seemed to flow, Aziraphale bestowing smiles like they were nothing, like they didn’t have to be earned. Sitting sideways on his bar stool so he could face his companion (manners, always. It was disgusting really) it meant that Crowley saw him in profile – effortlessly, incessantly beautiful.

People liked Aziraphale. That was part of _ his _ hardwiring. Somehow they could sense his innate kindness and it drew them to him unerringly. The angel was just as bad, with his attentive listening and aura of genuinely caring what Stuart from IT thought. How many times had Crowley come across him like this, engrossed by some human or other at a watering hole, utterly oblivious to what the increasingly enthusiastic smiles and lingering touches meant?

At least, Crowley always optimistically assumed utter obliviousness. He didn’t think he could deal with the alternative.

Finally, Aziraphale’s new friend got up to leave. Probably just to the toilet, given the way he leaned in, letting his hand linger on Aziraphale’s thigh, before walking reluctantly away, but perhaps the weight of Crowley’s malevolent stare had something to do with it, who knew, really? Crowley didn’t even give him the chance to get out of sight before he slid onto the vacated stool beside Aziraphale.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said. He tried to imbue it with a certain amount of ominousness, but pathetic bastard that he was, Crowley feared it just came out hurt and a little grumpy. 

Aziraphale’s face lit up at the sight of him. “Crowley!”

There was a certain amount of satisfaction to be had in the fact that none of the smiles Aziraphale had directed at his previous partner had anything on this one. This one radiated light like one of those old Byzantine paintings of angels, head surrounded in a shining halo of gold. Crowley had never seen him give it to anyone else, and he would never admit it, not even drunk, but it was one of his favourite things in the world. That, and the Expression.

“You’re early.” 

“And good job, too. Where’s your new friend?”

“You’ve been _ watching _ me?” Aziraphale asked, scandalised, amused, and, to Crowley’s secret delight, a little guilty. Like a date caught texting their ex. Or perhaps, in Aziraphale’s case, caught reading a Wilde.

Crowley shrugged, unembarrassed. “‘M a demon. Loitering about in the unsavoury establishments of the world is what I do.”

“Unsavoury?” Aziraphale said in exasperation, glancing around at the well-lit bar with its comfortable, clean interior and fancy finishes. “Really, my dear.”

“Yeah? Well what were _ you _ doing? Finding some poor unsuspecting sap to pay your tab?”

Ah, there it was, the Expression, that cool look, pinched mouth, sarcasm at the corners of his eyes. Crowley loved that look almost as much as the sun-shattering smile, because that look was a look just for him. Whether he would admit it or not, Aziraphale simply wouldn’t trust anyone else to see him less than polite, less than bright and happy and helpful. Even with the customers he turned away from buying his precious books, the angel had a way of helping them to understand that this wasn’t really what they wanted to spend their hard-earned money on, and to go on now and have a lovely day. No one else ever got that sharpness, the little eye-roll, the gentle sniping (oh, _ flawless _) like raspberry coulis sweet-tart on the back of the tongue.

“Clearly, I needn’t have bothered,” he said with a sort of soft waspishness that made Crowley’s heart sing. “Since you’re here, now.”

And yes, all right, that was warranted, because Crowley would indeed pay Aziraphale’s tab, and had been doing so for millennia at this point. They both knew it. Seemed a little rude to go lampshading it like that, though.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said, with a hand to his chest (this was the best way, he considered, to get even). “Am I your shining knight come to rescue you from the vagaries of capitalism? Shall I thus present my platinum Amex and sweep you off into the night?”

Aziraphale actually rolled his eyes. Crowley had to restrain himself from any outward manifestations of glee. “All you’ve rescued me from so far is a rather pleasant conversation. I think you’ll have to do better than that if you want to claim knight status.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Crowley warned. 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, expression delightfully bitchy. “Well if you’re not up to it…”

Gauntlet thrown down and accepted. Crowley sprung off the bar stool and, rather daringly, took Aziraphale’s hand, holding it in both of his own. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he demanded loudly. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.” He gestured expansively. “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” He lifted Aziraphale’s hand, breathing the words over his knuckles. “But thy eternal summer shall not fade.” He looked back up at Aziraphale, who was tracking him intently, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.” Aziraphale’s hand was an inch from Crowley’s lips now, and the angel was watching him almost expectantly. “So long as men can breathe,” Crowley murmured, “or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to–”

“Is this man bothering you?”

Crowley groaned expressively and dropped Aziraphale’s hand to swing around and face the interruption. It was the man from before. Must’ve been a loo break, then. How disappointing. Crowley was just winding up to give the overly-solicitous little mollusc a piece of his mind, when Aziraphale caught his arm and tugged him back from the confrontation.

“Of course he is,” Aziraphale said, his voice so full of affection that Crowley had to turn back just to look at his face. He was smiling, glowing with fondness, and Crowley melted catastrophically. “He’s my husband.”

Some more words were exchanged after that. Crowley didn’t pay them any attention. It wasn’t until they were out on the street, making their way hand in hand to the theatre, Aziraphale's wedding band a warm weight against Crowley's entwined fingers, that Aziraphale turned to him and asked, “Are you quite satisfied with yourself?”

“Oh, exorbitantly,” Crowley said. Aziraphale huffed, but looked pleased nonetheless.

“Ridiculous creature,” he muttered. Then he leant over, and kissed Crowley on the cheek. “The poetry was nice.”

“Your smile’s my favourite thing in all of creation,” Crowley blurted.

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I always got the impression you were, ah, rather fond of my…”

“Lots of things to love about you, angel,” Crowley said quickly.

“You, too, my dear.” They gazed at each other a moment. “You were very dashing,” Aziraphale added.

“Uhh,” Crowley said, while his brain parsed that out. “Noooo, wait, you–? That was– That was on purpose?” Suddenly he was looking at all those encounters over the years with new eyes. Not oblivious, then, but attention-seeking.

Aziraphale smirked. Crowley fell for him all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here on Tumblr](https://themoonmothwrites.tumblr.com/post/187385243323/good-luck-on-tuesday-for-a-fic-prompt-i-want) if you feel like giving a re-blog :)


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